


race me to the sky (know we'll get there, in the end)

by ThisUsernameTaken



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Racing, SO, abuse of parentheses probably, except it's kageyama and he doesn't ever think, go go lets go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 00:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18560386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisUsernameTaken/pseuds/ThisUsernameTaken
Summary: It’s that he canfly, and something about his entire being makes him feel like that maybe he can too, even as ball meets finger to palm to impact, powerful, indisputable.Invincible.It’s that he squints at his deepest scowls, poking fingers and ringing laughter where others had met only scorn. It’s that he holds out his hand, smiles where others turn away. It’s that he’s his partner. (He’s his friend.)--First year Kageyama Tobio, and Hinata. He's not quite sure what to make of him.





	race me to the sky (know we'll get there, in the end)

It’s that he looks up to the sky; the sun, palm outstretched, fingers splayed wide in ambition and hopes and dreams, the glint of something other than sun-induced blindness in the honey cognac of his eyes. 

 

It’s that he looks up, hand open in greeting, anticipation, that he looks down, back up, to him, even as he ducks back into the gym, a smile of his own to Hinata’s sunlight beam, the squeak of shoes, impact of balls on familiar hardwood floors that speak of victory and defeat and joy and the future, stretching on and uncertain, forever and ever and free. 

 

It’s that he can  _ fly _ , and something about his entire being makes him feel like that maybe he can too, even as ball meets finger to palm to impact, powerful, indisputable.  _ Invincible _ . 

 

It’s that he squints at his deepest scowls, poking fingers and ringing laughter where others had met only scorn. It’s that he holds out his hand, smiles where others turn away. It’s that he’s his partner. (He’s his friend.)

 

It’s that this mess of a boy, hair like it’s never met a brush in its  _ life  _ and sharp elbows and scuffed up shoes, double laced and worn and loved-- that this mess of a boy-- Hinata. Hinata Shouyou. 

 

It’s that he’s never met someone so like him before, it’s that he never, ever will. It’s that he squints up at him in a beam, shouts good morning before racing ahead, because they race to those double doors,  _ always _ , and maybe he’s won and maybe he hasn’t, as they lie panting on the steps, six minutes too early and breathless with something like laughter to boot. 

 

It’s that maybe he wants to smile, when he’s with him, wants to play beside him because no one’s every synced with him like that before. (It’s that he’s found a friend, and maybe this one won’t leave.)

 

It scares him, and thin brows push into a scowl, mouth set between the strain of introspection and his impending lack of milk.

 

(“Whatcha thinking about, anyway?”

 

He snorts. Turns away. 

 

“How stupid your face looks.”

 

“ _ Oi _ !” 

 

Then, “I didn’t know you could think outside volleyball,  _ Bakayama-kun _ ,” and then those unruly curls are in his fingers, his other hand twined in the others, small fingers to his own, as they push each other back by the palms, go tumbling into the grass.

And they kick and roll, down, down, down, til Hinata pushes off his chest, flops down in the grass beside him with a small, satisfied sound. 

 

“Ahhh, that was fun.” And he’s up again, feet under him and arms stretched to the sky; the sun. He looks up, looks down; holds out a hand. Smiles.)

 

It’s that he helps him up, picks grass out his bangs with a laugh. It’s that he looks him up and down with mock seriousness, hands on his hips. (It’s that he takes his limp arms by the wrists and swings them, back, forth, back, the last throw causing him to stumble as Hinata runs back up the hill, shouting a whoop and hands in the air. “I think we all know who the real victor is here, Kageyama-kun!” Running backwards to face him like a perfect, cheating, false-starting  _ jerk _ .)

 

It’s that he tears up after him, a snarl in his throat like laughter, the cut of his legs like flight.

 

He’s found a friend in this mess of a boy, and he isn’t going  _ anywhere _ . Except maybe to the finish line, to victory, to sun and sky and future. (But that’s not happening either, because he’s going to get there  _ first _ .)

 

(They make it back up to the gym eventually, hands braced on the doorframe as they double over with a wheeze. They make it back up to the gym eventually, heels set in perfect time. They make it back up to the gym eventually, together.)

 

(Maybe he’ll get there first. Maybe he won’t. Least he knows is they’ll end up side by side. Like now. Like together. Like always.)   
  
It’s that he’s found a friend. And they aren’t going anywhere.


End file.
